Before the Sirens

There are mornings when silence feels heavier than sound.

Not the kind you hope for—peaceful, welcome.

The kind that arrives uninvited.

The kind that lingers in the corners of a school building before the lights hum and the bells ring.

Educators know that kind of quiet.

We move through it like ritual: unlocking doors, opening windows, preparing for the noise that tells us the day has begun. But some mornings, the silence moves differently. It presses in. It listens. It waits. And when it does, everything inside you starts listening back.

It’s in those moments—before anything happens, before anything is confirmed—that you feel the weight of your role in a way no training manual prepares you for.

We rehearse for fire drills and lockdowns. We memorize acronyms and procedural steps. We stand at the front of the room like nothing could ever break in. But what no one tells you is how disorienting it feels when the calm you’re used to suddenly turns unfamiliar. Not because of sirens, but because of what hasn’t happened—yet.

The room is quiet, but your pulse isn’t. Everything looks normal, but nothing feels right. And in that dissonance, something shifts. Sometimes the silence feels like it knows something you don’t, and it waits for you to catch up.

I remember the first time I felt it.

A Thursday in mid-August. Just me and the building, waking up together.

The sun hadn’t yet broken over the parking lot. The hallway lights flickered to life like they didn’t want to.

The building was still, and stillness isn’t always peace. It can be a warning.

I unlocked my classroom, stepped inside, and did what I always do: I opened the window.

That’s the part I remember most clearly. I always open the window.

But that day, it felt different, like I was offering the room to something unseen.

There was no sound. No signal. But there was a presence.

And I remember thinking, “Why does the quiet feel so loud today?”

The moment passed. But the feeling didn’t, and some part of me knew: this would not be just another Thursday.

Not for me.

Silent Sirens is the story that grew from that question.

It’s not a report. It’s not a confession. It’s not a cry for outrage.

It’s a meditation on presence, responsibility, and the silence that surrounds all of us—whether we’re paying attention or not.

It doesn’t name names. It doesn’t trace timelines. But it remembers.

It remembers what it feels like to stand in a room that used to feel safe, and to suddenly wonder if it still is.

It remembers the weight of waiting.

The questions you ask with your eyes, because your voice might scare someone.

The way a doorknob can feel like a decision.

It remembers the silence before anything is known... when what matters most is whether you trust your instinct or wait for someone to name it for you.

If you’ve ever stood in front of a group of students and pretended not to scan the windows...

If you’ve ever opened your door to thirty souls and prayed you'd return them all...

If you’ve ever felt the world press inward on a place that was supposed to keep danger out...

Then this story might speak to something you’ve buried.

I’m not telling it because I want to.

I’m telling it because I still don’t have the words for what I felt that morning.

But maybe, by writing, I’ll get closer.

And maybe you will too.

Coming Sunday at 8 PM CDT

Here on Vocal.

Please bring stillness. And let it speak.

“Before the sirens, there is silence. And sometimes, that silence says more than any sound ever could.”